I've Got a Feeling

What else is there to say about the famous rooftop concert? Just this: every time you watch it, you pick up something new. And that something new usually can be summed up thusly: good GOD what a band.

Paul McCartney's critical reputation has been on the upswing since before this century started, so it's sometimes surprising to remember just how much the critics savaged him and his music in the 1970s. He was often lumped into with other saccharine popsters of the day, writing and singing empty confectionaries, just chasing chart success. And to be fair, that's not entirely inaccurate. Except you know which of his peers up there at #1 could sing balls to the wall rock and roll like he so casually does at about 0:29 there? None of them. (Well...Rod the Mod. But he doesn't count.)

John Lennon, of course, is at his coolest here—and when he was cool, there was absolutely no one cooler—obviously emotionally invested, and just gliding through the proceedings with that amazing voice, playing some sweet guitar, and occasionally (such as at 1:54) unleashing that zillion watt smile of his. Obviously, he was one of the great rock and roll screamers of all time, but here he goes the smooth route, gliding above everything casually, knowing that's the most musically effective way to provide counterpoint to Paul's grit.

Even the famously unhappy by this point George Harrison mainly looks pleased, and outright happy a bunch of places—usually but not always when smiling at Ringo, and who can really blame him?—all while playing that frankly weird-ass guitar part that no one else would have come up with and with fits absolutely perfectly.

Speaking of, notice the way Ringo Starr is pounding those toms. There's a very clear difference in timbre between drums hit hard and drums not hit hard, and Ringo is bashing those poor things, getting the best possible tones out of them. And check out that brief, tight and not terribly characteristic fill at 1:28, with its sweet syncopated hi-hat bark. But most of all, listen to the way he brings them back in after the breakdown, around 1:17, as George smiles and Paul hits that perfect high note. They're on a damn rooftop, having not played live in years, they're freezing--several of them wearing their wives' coats in an attempt to keep warm—and them come back in at precisely the right millisecond. If the top studio musicians in New York or Los Angeles stumbled upon these guys playing in some dingy club and heard that bit, they would have turned to each other in shock. "Did you just hear that?" "Of course I did. Good god, who are these guys?"

Easily the best band ever, that's who.

Monkberry Moon Delight

I knew the name of this tune for literally decades before I ever heard it, due almost entirely to the largely negative reviews of the entire Ram album I'd read over the years. So as a Paul fan with a limited income, I gave it a pass in favor of other stuff. But then Al Gore invented the internet and I was able to hear a few tracks and decided it was more than worth a serious listen and what do I discover but perhaps his second best studio album ever?

Now, I'm not going to go quite so far into revisionism as to claim it's better than the fantastic Band on the Run, but damn if Ram isn't a great LP; only Macca could release a collection this strong and have it not just overlooked but actually panned, rather than universally lauded as a peer of Pet Sounds when it comes to pop gems, as it should have been.

"Monkberry Moon Delight" isn't my favorite track on the album, but it may have been the biggest surprise, given that the title always made me assume it'd sound more along the lines of, say, the impossibly bittersweet "Junk," or the lovely, tender "The Back Seat of My Car." Instead, it's Paul in Little Richard mode and my god can McCartney rock when he wants to.

The lyrics may be the kind of nonsense Paul slapped down when he couldn't be arsed to work up something legit—or, perhaps, was stoned enough that he thought they did make sense at the time—and which only serve to illustrate how difficult it really is to pull off the sort of Carrollian wordplay John Lennon and Kurt Cobain were so good at. But when you've got the voice of a rock god it doesn't really matter what you're singing, as long as you're singing like that.

For No One

So today I turn 48. One year younger than James Garfield when he died. Meaning next year I will look pretty much like this.

Hey, it's an improvement.

But I'm not posting this today to fish for shameless birthday wishes. Although thank you! Thank you for remembering! Really, that is just so nice!

No. Today is my birthday. And like I do with many, many different occasions and times of year, I tend to associate my birthday with specific music.

Election Day makes me think of, and listen to, Bob Dylan. I've written about this before, a few times.

When the summer turns to fall and the school year begins, even though I haven't been a student of any kind since 1990, I think of The Replacements. And during those "back to college" times that follow, meaning the fall, I tend to think about R.E.M. Likely because I became such a fanatic of both bands in college.

In the summer it's Bruce Springsteen for all occasions, as it should be,  And on vacation it's often healthy doses of escapist music like the Allman Brothers, Van Morrison, Miles Davis. In the deep throws of winter it's the darker stuff that tends to seep in, such as Warren Zevon and Leonard Cohen. And there is never, ever any time of year when it's a good idea to listen to these guys.

But my birthday? It's always about the Beatles.

A couple of years ago I set out to listen to their entire catalog start to finish in chronological order over the course of my birthday weekend. And I liked it so much I do it each year, a little Beatles marathon (10-12 hours of Beatles music, that is to say) starting with "I Saw Her Standing There" and ending with "You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)." So that's where I am now. Thinking about and listening to the Beatles. Because it's my birthday and probably because the Beatles have always been my "birthday band,," dating back to when I was 12 and first started receiving Beatles records for my birthday.

And today I want to write about my absolute favorite Beatles song of all time. Not their greatest song, mind you, but my favorite. "For No One."  Located right smack in the center of Revolver, only the greatest album ever released by the greatest band ever to walk the earth.

(Although to clarify—this is one of their greatest songs, and in fact when Scott and I were putting together our Top 50 Beatles list a few years ago, we both agreed "For No One" should place way up there on any list).



Simply put, they never recorded a more beautiful song, never wrote a more poignant song, never sang a song more perfectly. Did some Beatles songs equal it in those capacities? Of course. But it is this 48-year-old man's opinion they never did it better.

It's everything about the song. The words are some of the most plaintive and mature Paul McCartney ever wrote. He wasn't known for writing about sadness necessarily, at least not as much as John was, but look at these verses and tell me they couldn't be mistaken for the finest tear-duct onslaughts of Roy Orbison, or the saddest of Leonard Cohen's tales.

The day breaks
Your mind aches
You find that all the words of kindness linger on
When she no longer needs you

She wakes up
She makes up
She takes her time and doesn't feel she has to hurry
She no longer needs you

And in her eyes you see nothing
No sign of love behind the tears
Cried for no one
A love that should have lasted years

You want her
You need her
And yet you don't believe her when she says
Her love is dead
You think she needs you

You stay home
She goes out
She says that long ago she knew someone
But now he's gone
She doesn't need you

The day breaks
Your minds aches
There will be times when all the things she said
Will fill your head
You won't forget her

And in her eyes you see nothing
No sign of love behind the tears
Cried for no one
A love that should have lasted years

Those are as gorgeous and they are heartbreaking. Through all of the myriad accolades Macca has deservedly received over the years, I'm still not sure he ever gets his due credit as a first-rate songwriter. But his ability to convey pure loss and sadness without ever slipping into sap or self-pity is staggering. The unconventional phrasing, the intermittent rhyme scheme, the way Paul seems to shape each syllable around his peerless, perfect voice. It's all there. It's genuine anguish Paul writes and sings about, but he does it with such sweetness and intricacy that it's impossible not to feel every word and every note. And see the beauty behind it,

The music is as breathtaking as Paul's words and voice are, even though John Lennon and George Harrison are nowhere to be found. No guitar either. Just Paul on bass, piano and clavichord, and of course Ringo Starr keeping flawless pace with a timekeeping roll that sounds like a slow march. But then there is one more added trump card; Alan Civil with a french horn solo in the middle (and accompaniment at the final verse) that takes the song to somewhere very different and very high and very special, soaring above all and...and I can't believe I am writing thhis...almost upstaging the work of the Beatles themselves with his masterful little run up and down the scale. Paul sounds like defeat and regret when he sings. But Civil's playing makes the hurt feel even sharper, the pain even deeper. And in a sad love song, that's pretty amazing.

Last and by no means least, in a tribute to the power of brevity, "For No One" clocks in at 1:59. That's all they needed to create this piece of timeless musical art. Don't get me wrong—"Free Bird" and "Hey Jude" and "Stairway to Heaven" and "Visions of Johanna" and others all have their well-earned longplay place in the realms of musical royalty. But sometimes, you don't need more than two minutes to get it done.

That's "For No One." And that's my little explanation as to why neither the Beatles, nor anyone else, ever did it better.

Junk

I've always had something of an aversion to jazz covers of rock, since so often it (to my ears) bowdlerizes the source into EZ-listening mush, but Brad Mehldau clearly has not a lounge player's approach but one much closer to that of John Coltrane, and the results are always engaging and often extraordinary. And I'm always pleased when my tastes line up with an artist's I like, since I think this is maybe the single most gorgeous song, melodically, that Paul McCartney ever wrote. Which, you know, isn't sayin' nothin', all things considered.

In fact, if I have any quibbles with this version, it's that I'd have liked it to go on about another half hour.

Favorite Song Friday: Press

Look. Let's this get this right out of the way up front: I'm not saying this is a great song. I am, however, saying that it's far better than its reputation. And, moreover, I'm saying I love it so very hard.

Sure, its production is ridonkulous, and I say that as someone who has loved unabashedly and unreservedly many of Hugh Padgham's records. And yet it's hard to deny that the production is so 1980s it should be wearing parachute pants.

But it's not all the production's fault. Macca's style is in full bloom here, for good and bad. The good is that, of course, it's an insanely catchy song, with a bridge that most good artists would kill a dozen homeless people for in order to use it as a chorus. And the verse is even catchier. And neither comes close to how catchy the chorus itself actually is. And his voice sounds great, even for him—once you get past the silly pseudo-accent he adopts for the count-in. And, frankly, the overt sexuality of the lyric is somewhere between bracing and kind of embarrassing, and good for him. (I think.)

But then he throws in bits like the "Oklahoma" part and what the hell is with that? First of all, structurally, it's weird—the kind of weird he seems to revel in, as though he'd mastered the perfect pop form long ago and so has to deliberately try to sabotage songs in order to keep things interesting. (To be fair, he's probably not wrong.)

Anyhoo, the most famous musician in the world can do many things, but convince someone he's a boy from Oklahoma ain't one of 'em. I mean...look at the expression on the woman's face at 2:14. She tries to be cool and pretend she's not utterly stoked to be in the presence of a damn Beatle...but she can't. No one can. And no one's not fully aware that Sir Paul McCartney was born and bred 4475 miles from the Sooner State. And then, to make things worse, he has the silly drum break, apparently determined to outdo (or perhaps indo) John Fogerty on "Zanz Kant Dance."

Wow. That's a lot of negativity from a guy who claims to like the song. And I don't really have all that many arguments to counterbalance the criticisms. Except this: it's Paul. And all that stuff is true, this is kind of a lousy record, well below "Silly Love Song" standards (and I'm not kidding about that). But it's still got Paul damn McCartney unleashing that impossibly great voice on a fantastic melody, the kind which inspired the brilliant Douglas Adams to write:

Arthur could almost imagine Paul McCartney sitting with his feet up by the fire on evening, humming it to Linda and wondering what to buy with the proceeds, and thinking probably Essex.

Also the video's a hoot.

Supposedly this is literally the first time McCartney had ridden the underground since 1962. That's pretty believable, but would also make a dandy urban legend. Either way, watching the reaction of people realizing they're near a Beatle just doesn't really get old, and he's so damn charming that his deep-seated need to please and be liked somehow doesn't grate (too much). Also, his hair looked better back before he started dyeing it.

So. Yeah. Not a great song. But at least every few years I'm hit with the urge to listen to it and whenever I do I find myself playing it a half dozen times because really some people just wanna fill the world with silly love songs, and what's wrong with that?

Eleanor Rigby

I saw a puff piece a few years ago that was nevertheless right on the money in one regard. It started with something like "there are famous musicians like U2 and Bruce Springsteen and David Bowie. There are really famous musicians like Madonna and the Rolling Stones. And then there's Paul McCartney." 

That was fame. Then there's accomplishments. And even if he kinda mugs a bit in this performance, still, at the end of the day, who else could have written this song, and sang it quite this way? (Even if John Lennon really did write most of the lyrics.)

Ringo

Look at this guy.

Nearly 75 years old. And still the coolest man in rock-n-roll. Bar none.

"I love it. It's always a thrill for me when I play with Paul. It's like good friends, people who know each other and have been through a lot together. And you know, the bass and the drummer usually are friends."

Those were some of his remarks following his much-deserved solo induction into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame (televised last weekend).


And in typical Ringo fashion, his comments are equal parts incredibly poignant and so crazily understated. His acknowledgement of he and Paul having been through it all together is just so lovely in its simplicity, the only two remaining people on this earth who could have possibly known what it was like to be in The Beatles, the only band of its kind and import that's ever existed. And then he has to throw in the whole "the bass and the drummer usually are friends." Because, you know, ho hum. That's all we are. Just the bassist and the drummer in a little band. Hangin' out. Only Ringo could make a lifelong friendship with a fellow freaking Beatle sound as simple as two close friends in an after-work garage band.

And in terms of his, "It's always a thrill for me when I play with Paul?" I cannot speak on behalf of Sir Macca, of course, but my guess is his comment would be something like, "Right back atcha, mate."

After all, that's kinda what this picture right here is saying, all by itself.

Lucille

What's the greatest thing about this?

Is it the truly staggering lineup of musicians, with the likes of Dave Edmunds, Billy Bremner and Pete Townshend on guitars, Paul McCartney, Bruce Thomas, Ronnie Lane and John Paul Jones on bass and Kenney Jones and John Bonham on drums? Is it McCartney's outstanding vocal turn? Is it perhaps one of the very few sightings ever of Robert Plant on guitar? (That's right, you heard me: Robert Plant. Playing. Guitar. Led Zeppelin is here as a power trio and the guitarist isn't Jimmy Page.)

It is none of those. No, it is the utterly transcendent performance of a presumably completely hammered Townshend as he leeringly approaches McCartney at 1:27, like a drunken Hannibal Lector ogling a fresh meal, while Macca appears significantly more amused than Clarice Starling ever was. Townshend then drifts off to rip into a typically awesome solo...at first, before seeming to lose the key and getting blessedly mixed out. Now that's what I call charity.

Two of Them

I've seen this picture for years. Only never really looked at it until very recently.

The single most dynamic and important partnership in the history of 20th century music, caught in freeze-frame magic at the literal beginning of their superstardom. This photo, after all, was taken upon their arrival in New York City in early 1964 and stands as one of the earliest captured moments of what we now know as the British Invasion. Just by the time and place alone, not to mention the brilliance and magnitude of the two men pictured, this photo stands as one of the most iconic in the history of rock-n-roll.

But look a little closer, as I did recently, and note some fascinating details. The looks on their respective faces stand to represent, I think, a pretty accurate look behind the curtain at each of them.

There's John Lennon at 23, the sly rapscallion, effortlessly doffing his cap as he glances off to his right, offering a sneaky grin that has even the tiniest hint of a sneer attached to it, as if he's in on a joke only he can understand.

There's Paul McCartney, two years younger at 21 and a touch more innocent, his hand warmly draping his friend's shoulder, his smile more open and playful, his mouth reflecting a bit more than John's the sheer wonder of the moment.

And each of them is looking at something totally different. John's glance is sideways, Paul's is upward and straight ahead. Each fully aware of what this moment means, even if no one else does yet.

This is their first time on American soil—the United States being the holy grail for British pop artists, a territory desperately desired by all yet never before conquered by any. And keep in mind, this is a mere 13 months after their first British hit, so while they've been stars in the United Kingdom and Europe for a while, it's not like it's truly old hat to them yet.

And yet in both of those faces, the sense of total confidence, to an almost defiant degree. And clearly neither of them is spooked by this moment. Instead both know not only exactly why they belong here, but also exactly what's to come before too long. Maybe they can't see the full future. Maybe they can't yet see Revolver and Sgt. Pepper and Abbey Road. Maybe not. But they definitely see something. And they know it's going to be huge.

This is a photo of two men who know that greatness is just about to come within reach, and they know they are ready to grab it. And never let go.

Favorite Song Friday: You

The conventional wisdom has it that George Harrison, with his first proper solo album, All Things Must Pass, recorded not only his best LP, but in the view of many, the best solo record by any former Beatle ever. It sounds crazy, the idea of anyone recording an album better than something John Lennon or Paul McCartney could put out—sorry, Ringo; you know I love you—until you actually listen to All Things Must Pass, at which point a coherent, convincing rebuttal becomes significantly harder.

The conventional wisdom has it that George was then more or less tapped out. His next album, Living in the Material World, was good, maybe even very good, but not great, and certainly not the masterpiece All Things Must Pass was. And from then on, more or less, each album got weaker and weaker, some featuring a few good tracks and lots of filler, and a few not even that.

It's not entirely without merit. When Harrison played his one (sadly all too brief) post-Dark Horse tour in the early 90s, the bulk of the set was drawn from his Beatles days, his first solo LP and (unfortunately) his most recent, Cloud 9, with the 7 albums that came in between represented by at most a song each, and in most cases, none at all. Which would seem to indicate George himself had a pretty decent idea of the relative merits of each of his releases.

But then there's this utterly perfect pop gem. Originally written for Ronnie Spector, and recorded for but not released on All Things Must Pass, it sat in a drawer, forgotten, for half a decade before George finished it off for 1975's Extra Texture. Which just.

How could anyone lose track of a song as flawless as this? Its sparse lyrics say all that need be said, which manages to avoid Harrison's tendency to get a tad preachy. And while Phil Spector could undoubtedly have made it sound like, well, a Spectorian grand production, it actually doesn't sound all that much like a Spector song at its base. Instead, it sounds like the perfect missing link between vintage mid-60s Motown and soon to be released smash hit with all-time great bassline "Silly Love Songs," by fellow former fab Paul McCartney.

Although a hit at the time, "You" has been forgotten over the years, which is a shame. (On the other hand, given what a punchline "Silly Love Songs" has become, maybe there are worse fates.)

The White Album: an expert texpert opinion

I've always been a Paul guy, even though, as I get older, his tendency to want—or need—to charm and please becomes more and evident.

Maybe that's why I like this clip so much. He starts out in a "some say this, and it's not unreasonable, while others say that, and they too have a valid point" equivocating mood, but by the end works himself up into a statement that's both seemingly honest and absolutely one hundred percent accurate.

Damn skippy.

The Supergroup That Should Have Been

I've always thought a truly spectacular supergroup could have been formed by Paul McCartney, Eric Clapton and Pete Townshend. All three are obviously amazing, multi-faceted artists, have been close admirers of each other since the mid-60s, and have worked together in various configurations at least occasionally. And while all three have almost always been very much the dominant musical forces in whatever settings they've been in for most of that time—with one very obvious exception—all three have also proven they can step back and simply be the very finest of supportive musicians, at least in the short term.

Clapton, of course, has often taken on the sideman role, whether it was as touring guitarist for Delaney & Bonnie or for Roger Waters, or as very much the minor partner, to everyone's surprise (including, I suspect, Steve Winwood's) in Blind Faith.

Meanwhile, Pete Townshend, never one to suffer fools gladly, still seems to be in awe of Clapton, as this clip shows—his entire demeanor is remarkably deferential, considering what an outstanding guitarist and singer he is himself (and how much better a songwriter he is, even conceding Clapton's own songwriting is sometimes under-appreciated).

And then there's Paul McCartney, whose musical and personal/professional dominance is one of the things that broke up the Beatles. (Although if he hadn't been so aggressive in wanting the band to keep working, they probably would have broken up out of sheer ennui anyway.) And yet even George Harrison, at a time when he and Paul weren't getting along and while dismissing some of McCartney's more whimsical songs, praised the brilliance Paul's playing on other people's songs. The contributions he made to "Tomorrow Never Knows," "And Your Bird Will Sing," "If I Needed Someone" or "Come Together," to name only a very few of John's and George's songs, are massive.

And then there's this.

When Paul and Eric sing the bridge together, watching each other, just after the 7:00 mark is spine-tingling, and makes me sorry they never did more more extensively, and wonder what might have been.

Maybe I'm Amazed

Ran across an article about power ballads, which led to another and then another. (This one's especially funny.)

As with so many things rock, there's a lot of disagreement as to what the very first one was. Aerosmith's "Dream On" and Styx's "Lady"—both from 1973—have pretty solid claims to the arguably somewhat dubious throne.

But for my money—and with apologies to its predecessor "Hey Jude," with which it shares many traits, not least of which is the same guy singing and playing piano and who may have something to do with the writing—the true original power ballad is this.

Admittedly, due to its one-man-band origins, its a bit less obvious in the original studio recording than in its more famous live version from a few years later.

Now that's a power ballad.

Mullet and sequins and adorbs mugging or no, sweet FSM that man could sing. And, perhaps sometimes overly sweet pop confectionary aside, that was one hell of a band. It's not entirely surprising artists as talented as Joe English and Jimmy McCulloch chafed at being dictated to but, on the other hand, crazy good as they were, they simply were no Paul McCartney. Which, hey, is no crime: semantics aside, there really has only ever been one of 'em.

Rock Show

There are several things that can be definitively stated as fact after watching this clip.

1) Joe English was one hell of a drummer. I'd love to know whether Dave Grohl realizes he was influenced by English, since his fills seem a clear precursor to the stuff Grohl did with Nirvana.

2) Jimmy McCulloch was one smooth-lookin' dude, apparently influencing the look of Tony Manero.

3) bouncy, happy arena-rock-era Paul McCartney, sporting an absolutely fabulous mullet is, no kidding, awesome. Someone playing bass that well is amazing. Someone singing that well is almost unbelievable. Someone doing both at the same time, having also written these complex pop songs, and conveying an unreal sense of unbridled joy all the while, is just...

Oi. 

Imagine the Band

I did not think this was going to work.

Favorite Song Friday: Silly Love Songs

Paul McCartney’s "Silly Love Songs" is both one of the more reviled as well as ingenious pop tunes ever, a song that manages to be both a catchy little ditty and a surprisingly complex composition.

The majority of the song is based around a repeating three-chord-structure. These basic chord changes are first heard in the oddly industrial-sounding introduction—seriously, what the hell's up with that? Is it meant to counterbalance and highlight the most basic element of humanity throughout the rest of the song? An ironic counterpoint to the lushness to follow? Or on his own ability to seemingly churn out perfect pop ditties with automaton-like efficiency?—where they’re run through twice. A simple but unusual pattern, it consists of the tonic, mediant and subdominant, rather than the far, far more common tonic, subdominant and dominant; making things even a bit more interesting, the mediant and subdominant are both seventh chords, adding a certain amount of tonal richness and ambiguity.

Then we’re into the main body of the song. The chord changes are heard once again, but this time the feeling is completely different. Where before we had sixteenth notes on the high hat and factory-like percussion with whole note chords on the piano, the percussion has disappeared to be replaced by standard (if outstanding) drumming (courtesy of Joe English), with eighth notes on the high hat. The piano’s still there, but it’s no longer just playing bare chords, instead comping tastefully.

The main difference, though, is the bass line, certainly one of the finest in rock history as well as one of the most memorable and, not incidentally, mixed extremely high. In fact, it’s the lead instrument of the song, louder than either the drums or piano. Which, astonishingly, are the only instruments for this first verse. Just bass, drums and a little bit of colorization from the piano comping quietly in the background. That's it. Drums, some restrained piano, and carrying much of the melody and harmony simultaneously, lead bass—not at all standard for your typical silly love song. I can't think of another hit that's almost entirely just bass and drums.

Then, of course, there’s the vocals, singing one of those instantly catchy melodies McCartney literally used to be able to write in his sleep (cf. "Yesterday).  Even if you haven't heard the song in decades, I'm sure you can sing the melody flawless. Except, here's the thing: mind-bogglingly, this fantastic melody is never heard again until the very end of the six-minute-tune.

Think about that for a second. Imagine being able to write a melody as lovely and catchy as the first verse’s: "you’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs." Now imagine you’ve got so much talent that you can simply toss it to the side and move on. After all, you’ve got plenty more where that came from. That's unreal.

But that's not all. Oh, no. In fact, before the song’s over, McCartney will come up with five different melodies to go over that one basic set of chord changes, as well as others for the different sections of the song. Many of them are related to each other yet remain distinctly different, thanks to augmentation, diminution, interpolation, extrapolation and so on. Tasteful New Orleans brass suddenly pop up to introduce the chorus, during which they disappear, to be replaced by strings. This is the "I love you" section and, sure enough, it’s the same three chords again with a new melody on top.

After the chorus, we get the second verse, the "I can’t explain, the feeling’s plain to me, say, can’t you see" (hey, I never said the lyrics were brilliant) verse, whereupon McCartney comes up with a different, yet equally catchy melody—his third, for those keeping track at home—over the same chord changes. This time, Linda’s singing the "I love you" melody from the chorus in the background, kept company by the horn section.

Another chorus, this time both Paul and Linda singing the "I love you" melody and then we come to the bridge, the "love doesn’t come in a minute" section, which is played over an entirely different set of chord changes—the first that's happened in the song.

And then it’s right back to the good ol’ three-chord-structure again, this time for the solo. But as there’s no noticeable guitar in the song and the piano’s been relegated to simple comping and the bass has been taking the leads all along, what’s he to do? Why, he has the horn section take the solo, playing yet another melody, this one a variation on what they’d been playing in the background during the second verse, related to the original melody, only now each of their phrases is answered by the strings.

Then we’re into yet another section. It could be the chorus or it could be a verse, since they’re over the same set of changes. Since Paul’s singing yet another melody, the "how can I tell you about my loved one" line, however, it might simply be a whole new section, especially since it’s over a setting similar to the industrial introduction. Sans percussion sounds, however, its effect is completely differently, largely thanks to the addition of the drums and bass. After two runs through this, Linda begins to sing the "I love you" chorus part behind Paul’s lead line.

We come out of that for a quick trip to the brass and strings running through the changes once, and then it’s back to the new version of the introduction section. This time through it’s Paul singing the "I love you" melody while Linda soon adds the "I can’t explain, the feeling’s plain to me" part from the second verse. After a bit Denny Laine chimes in with the "how can I tell you" line that Paul’d had the first time but has since discarded. And, of course, all this is interlocking over the same three chords.

Finally we get back to a verse, and at long last we get the triumphant reappearance of the first melody, more than five long damn minutes after we first encountered it. Whereupon the entire song wraps up—and yet, interestingly, it ends not after another chorus, as would be expected, but at the end of this verse and, enigmatically, on an unresolved mediant chord rather than the expected tonic, giving a strangely unsettled feeling to the entire thing, as though McCartney's daring people to look more deeply into what would seem at first or second or ninth glance a simple pop throwaway, knowing that if they did they'd see a composition that's light years away from merely being a simple silly love song, its title notwithstanding.

There are but a small handful of artists ever who could have pulled off a feat this tricky and and audaciously hide the whole damn thing in plain sight. Phil Spector, Brian Wilson, Stevie Wonder and Prince are the obvious contenders, but I'm not sure any of them (certainly, Spector seems especially unlikely) would have had the restraint to pull off the curiously minimalist instrumentation at the beginning. (The fact that while McCartney's a multi-instrumentalist, like the rest, he's perhaps first and foremost a bassist obviously has more than a little to do with that.) 

But here's the kicker, and the reason that this song I've always loved is one of my all-time favorites: rumor has it that McCartney wrote it as a one-fingered-salute to the critics (some even say it was John Lennon himself) who’d said he was no longer capable of writing anything other than silly love songs.
McCartney picked up the gauntlet and created a complex composition disguised as the fluffiest of pop hits so successfully that even today few look past the title—and made millions off it.

Know what that is? That's ninja. Hell, that's beyond ninja: that's punk. That's punk on a level Malcolm McLaren never even dreamt of.

Silly Love Songs

So you were probably wondering—as most people do on a Thursday afternoon—"say, what would it sound like if Neil Young and Crazy Horse had covered Wings on their Live Rust Tour?"

Well. Wonder no more.

What's wrong with that? Not a thing. 

Sugar Ray Macca

I like pop. Melody is, as no one says, my jam, and pretty much regardless of style or trends, in the modern era, at least, pop equals melody. The beat may vary, the production certainly does, but melody is a constant in the majority of pop music.

So I liked Sugar Ray. What can I say? I did. Not enough to give them any money, but when one of their three or four songs I knew came on, I enjoyed them. I know it's not cool to admit it—hell, it wasn't cool to admit it back when they were selling millions of records, it certainly ain't cool now. But it's been a mighty long time since I cared what people thought of my taste in music, and back when I did care, I had the metabolism of a jackrabbit and, what the hell, even back then, back when I cared, I really didn't care much. I mean, listen to this intro:

It's "Ventura Highway" with a nice groove and less ridiculous lyrics. And if the band's sense of humor isn't exactly on a Monty Python level, well, I give 'em credit for not just trying to look cool. Is frontman Mark McGrath kind of annoying? Sure, but a lot of that may just be how much I wish I had his looks (certainly his hair and his abs). And, yeah, his voice is kinda nasally, but on the other hand, I found out not too long ago that he lived, for at least a little while, in the same small Connecticut town as me at the same time. So, you know: represent, my brotha.

Same goes with (what I think was?) their last hit:

Again, catchy melody, decent enough lyrics, prominent acoustic guitar set against a cool beat: for a guy like me, what's not to like? (Answer: the silly Robbie Robertson-like conducting of the other band members during the lovely acappella intro. Just...no.)

And here's my point. Tonight it hit me that Sugar Ray's basic DNA can be found right here:

Oh, sure, sure. I know, I know. "Band influenced by Beatles" isn't exactly news. Even to be influenced by a former-Beatle's post-Beatles work isn't exactly earth-shattering. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm not talking about having been influenced by the Fabs, although clearly the band was. I'm not even talking about having McCartneyesque influences or bits and bobs. I'm talking about this specific post-Beatles Paul McCartney song being the basis for Sugar Ray's biggest hits.

It's all there, save the nasally voice. That's Sugar Ray's entire hit template, one sub-3:00 tossed-off ditty, later sped up slightly. I mean, jeez, listening to the section from about 1:42 until the end, it feels like Sugar Ray owes a certain British knight royalties.

For No One

In the vast expanse of YouTube amazingness—from double rainbows to badass George Washington raps to "Don Draper Says What" to this embarassingly awesome "reunion" of Van Halen with David Lee Roth that literally fails as it happens—this is my favorite thing that YouTube has to offer. Hands down.

All it is is one of the greatest love songs ever written by perhaps rock-n-roll's greatest genius, performed in a primitive walk-through years after it was released on Revolver in 1966. Macca literally takes the engineers through this wondrous little song note by note, even simulating Alan Civil's epic french horn solo. It's as if he had just written it—that's how new and fresh it seems.

So much to love here. The way his voice starts a tiny bit rough but then so quickly becomes pitch perfect and, well, Paul-like. His imitation of a french horn.  The way he transitions from the "horn solo" into the final verse without missing a beat. And that stunning moment at 1:38 when, for whatever reason, he chooses to go up on "...when all the things you said will fill your head," hitting it spot-on in what had to have been a spur of the moment decision.

This is two minutes and five seconds of watching an artistic concept become realized, right before our eyes. Maybe it's not as sanguinely satisfying as watching Diamond Dave implode in front of the world, but it's so much more pleasing.